


I Want You To Know You Could Know Me

by 4_angsty_zukos



Category: Original Work
Genre: Abuse, I just need a place to vent so this is a thing now, Mentions of Mental Illness, Other, Parental neglect/abuse, Swearing, an open letter to my dad, names changed for privacy but everything here is true, read if you wanna know me as a person better I guess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-12 12:53:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29509986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/4_angsty_zukos/pseuds/4_angsty_zukos
Summary: My therapist thought writing things out might be useful and I doubt internet strangers will use this against me and if you do, then I've not lost much. I have a great amount of difficulty talking to my dad about anything important.





	I Want You To Know You Could Know Me

**Author's Note:**

> This will cover serious topics please read with caution and nope out if you feel overwhelmed.

Hey Dad- 

I feel like I have known two versions of you growing up. The first, the one who held me close and offered hugs and warmth , support and encouragement and who called me princess. The you who smiled and wanted to hear all about my day, who tucked me in and read to me and told me I could touch the stars if I tried. In my earliest memories, that's the you I had, a father who made me feel loved and special and secure. You were so important to me back then, you were a hero to me. I loved your stories and your jokes and how you always knew how to make me feel happy again on a bad day. I, foolishly, thought you would stay that way. But you didn't. You changed. After Mom died, you changed. I lost you too, I watched the light flicker out of your smile, the warmth from your hugs. At least, for me, that warmth was not there. I saw the old you, the normal you, again, in glimpses, when you would hold Amber and Storm, but not when you held me. And I wondered desperately what I did _wrong, what I was doing to deserve the loss of your kindness._

I know I changed too, after losing Mom, all of us did. But I was a child! I was a child, scared and sad and lonely , who needed their father, and you were content to do the bare minimum for me. Was it because I was the oldest, and thus supposed to need LESS? Was it because I reminded you of her somehow, in looks or action? You needed only to tell me, and I would have done anything to change that. I would have done **_ANYTHING_** to gain you back in full. I remember crying , and you were not there to comfort me through it. At nine years old, I was expected to get over it by myself. Death was a new horror to me, and you expected me to grapple with grief largely on my own. You helped Amber and Storm, of course, and I am glad you did, but what made it such an offense to help me? 

You started to say things to me. New things, insults and backhanded comments that stung worse than any cut ever could. I'd always been a shy and anxious child, and you had been kind before, but now, NOW you had new opinions- or maybe felt free to finally voice how you really felt. "Talking isn't hard, why couldn't you give your book report in front of the class?" "Stop crying, you have nothing to cry about. " " Why can't you just be normal? You're supposed to be the normal kid!" " Stop being childish, it's silly to cry over a book. " You said that to me after burning my favorite book in front of me. For some miniscule mistake- I think it was because I couldn't find an ingredient in the cupboard becasue it was very disorganized , and after searching the whole kitchen and basement pantry, I still didn't find it. You claimed I was lying, and then asked me to show you my favorite book. I thought you weren't going to do anything bad, so I did, I brought it to you. A copy of Matilda, the last present Mom ever gave me, but I bet you forgot that. I ... I hope you forgot that. You snatched it from me, and tore it to shreds, threw it in the fireplace, and set it on fire. I still remember the smirk on your face as you watched me cry. You laughed at me. You hurt me, and you laughed. I was so angry at you after that, so deeply angry. I didn't talk to you unless you demanded it for over a month, and even then, I spoke as little as possible. 

I mentioned , once, at 13, that I had a crush on a girl. You told me it was wrong. You'd deny it now , of course, but I know what I heard. You were angry at me for things I had zero control over- the way puberty affected me, the way things in the house would break- not even me breaking things, just anything breaking was MY fault somehow. I couldn't have friends over, not just because the house was a wreck, but because you were so mean to me that I was ashamed to let my friends be near you, because what if you were mean to them? The abuse was rarely ever physical, but in so many ways, you wounded me. Buying me clothes that were too tight, purely to then mock how fat I was, when I wasn't even overweight. Hinting often that I needed acne creams and then complaining if I asked for it. Mocking my lack of household keeping skills despite you giving minimal effort to teach me. Then , when I was 15 and angry and rebelling, commenting on my tomboy style, saying I would end up being a - well, I won't repeat it here, but it rhymes with "bag". Joke's on you, I am now, and proud of it. 

But we don't talk about that part of my life. Because you have made it painfully clear you view it as a " phase", as "wrong" and "sinful". We don't talk about my transness, because when I came out to you a year ago, you used the right name and pronouns for maybe a week and then went back to deadnaming me and misgendering me, and referring to the trans community as " THOSE people" . We don't talk about my depression, because at 10 years old , when I told you I had it, you told me I had nothing to be depressed over. As if Mom hadn't been gone for a year. We don't talk about my anxiety, unless you're making fun of it. We don't talk about my PTSD, or what caused it- the night I had to run scared for my life from my suddenly violent fiance, who left a bite mark on my face that has _left me with permanent nerve damage. It's been almost five years and my face still aches on the left side at random._ And when I called you that night, needing nothing more than your love and support, you... you uttered the last words I wanted to hear. 

"Well, what did you do? Maybe he had a good reason. "

_AS IF I DESERVED TO BE TRAUMATIZED AND HURT BY SOMEONE I TRUSTED, AS IF I EARNED THE VIOLENT REACTION HE HAD TO MY REQUEST TO STAY WITH A FRIEND FOR THE NIGHT, DESERVED TO KNOW EXACTLY WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO BE TRAPPED IN SOMEONE'S GRIP AS THEY BITE YOUR FACE, KNOWING, KNOWING IN YOUR BONES THAT SAFETY IS ONLY 30 FEET AWAY IF YOU COULD JUST GET TO THE DOOR. I KNOW WHAT IT IS TO SCREAM , TO SCREAM FOR HELP AT THE TOP OF YOUR LUNGS, UNTIL YOUR THROAT AND CHEST BURN FROM IT, AND GAIN NOTHING. I got lucky. I escaped. But there are stories , scores of them, of people who did not escape the monster they knew._

_You say kind things now, on occassion, but now I see it only as a predator luring prey with enticing treats. I know if I trust you, I will end up burned again._

I want to have a better relationship, but how can we, when you gaslight me and torment me, and accuse me of being a terrible person? You build a funeral pyre of my faults , and bury yours beneath the ashes. I remember the kind you, and I long for him so much it aches. I know he is there, buried deep , but he never surfaces for me. I asked you for something simple for Christmas, even described in detail where you could get one for very cheap, but you refused to get me a Pride flag. You wanted something from the Mandalorian show, and I made you a cross-stitch of Baby Yoda. It took me hours and hours, and I did it. Because despite the wish I have to not need your love or approval, I still crave it. Why? Why do I still care about how YOU feel? ! I don't want to, I want to say I could lose you and not cry, but I know I would miss you. Isn't that funny? You didn't miss me enough to call me more than twice in the years I spent away from home, but I would miss you enough to cry. What is wrong with me? Why do I love you still, why do I still want you to be ok? Why does the thought of you not attending my wedding one day hurt me so deeply, when I have known that for so long? 

**_Why do I feel guilty for hating you? I shouldn't. I shouldn't. I shouldn't. And yet...._ **


End file.
